develop the economic strength of the Japanese islands, but they do not understand that business success comes from the liberty to make decisions without the state setting obstacles at every step.’
Flash Harry cleared his throat. This might be a bit esoteric for him, the Princess reflected. She waved a beringed hand dismissively. ‘I have lived in the West for over sixty years, Mr Docherty. I married a Hungarian prince, may his soul rest in peace. My children are second cousins to dear King William. I have established my home here and been made to feel so welcome. I love the European Union, and would not go back.’
That was more like it. The pucker on Flash Harry’s brow vanished and was replaced with a broad grin, as if she had paid him a personal compliment. ‘Well, Princess, that’s what we like to hear. And your family was born in Britain too.’
‘Not quite. My younger children, yes. Prince Marius was born in Budapest. We left when Hungary voted to become a republic, otherwise he would be king there now. But, like myself, he has opted for the modern world, not the world as we might wish it to be. His service as an elected member of the House of Lords here in London gives me great pride.’She smiled sweetly.
They spoke of how much had changed in her lifetime – the weather, the disappearance of traffic jams, new-fangled gadgets such as the vidphone and self-wash laundry unknown in her youth. The studio clock showed that the allotted seven minutes were nearly up. ‘Princess, you know we ask our guests to choose a favourite piece of music and a favourite book,’ Flash Harry said. He was looking relieved: the thinking part of the interview was over. He gazed at her intently. ‘What are your choices, ma’am?’
‘Mr Docherty, that was so difficult,’ Princess Io cooed. ‘I like all music. But the concerto for bamboo pipes and zithers by the renowned Japanese composer Michiko Hirano would give me great pleasure, and for my book, the collected works of Kazuo Ishiguro. You know he wrote in English, of course?’
It gave her great and wicked pleasure to see the blank expression on Flash Harry’s face. There was no of course about it: he hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about. The courtesies were concluded and she was invited to remain in her seat until the recording was finished.
‘That’s it, we have a clear,’ came an authoritative voice from the darkness. Another anonymous hand touched her arm and led her to the side. Flash Harry nodded a curt ‘Thanks, Princess, ’bye,’ before rummaging for his powerbook. He had already wiped from his limited brain the Princess’s details and was immediately engaged in absorbing the bare facts about his next distinguished interviewee, who was waiting in the wings and fiddling nervously with his necktie.
It had not been an uplifting experience, the Princess confided later to her son. What she did not tell him, however, was her horror as she watched herself that evening from the comfort of her boudoir.
She looked old. She was old, but that was not itself a nuisance. Not normally. Her body was in fair condition: it has never been denied whatever care and treatment it required. She had never abused it with alcohol, tobacco or psychotropic drugs. Her clothes emphasised her birdlike fragility; her hair was as black and glossy as in her youth. And she had prided herself that her most recent face-lift, at the age of seventy-five, would last her till her natural end.
But the face looked haggard and wizened. The eyes sagged. Turkey skin disfigured the chin-line. On her fine bone structure the result was appalling, a stark contrast to the featureless inscrutability she had cultivated both as a princess and as an oriental.
As the programme credits rolled to the sound of enthusiastic applause from the mystery audience, the Princess reached for the vidphone. She might not be able to exchange her birth certificate, but she could tackle its unwanted outcome,
Flash Harry cleared his throat. This might be a bit esoteric for him, the Princess reflected. She waved a beringed hand dismissively. ‘I have lived in the West for over sixty years, Mr Docherty. I married a Hungarian prince, may his soul rest in peace. My children are second cousins to dear King William. I have established my home here and been made to feel so welcome. I love the European Union, and would not go back.’
That was more like it. The pucker on Flash Harry’s brow vanished and was replaced with a broad grin, as if she had paid him a personal compliment. ‘Well, Princess, that’s what we like to hear. And your family was born in Britain too.’
‘Not quite. My younger children, yes. Prince Marius was born in Budapest. We left when Hungary voted to become a republic, otherwise he would be king there now. But, like myself, he has opted for the modern world, not the world as we might wish it to be. His service as an elected member of the House of Lords here in London gives me great pride.’She smiled sweetly.
They spoke of how much had changed in her lifetime – the weather, the disappearance of traffic jams, new-fangled gadgets such as the vidphone and self-wash laundry unknown in her youth. The studio clock showed that the allotted seven minutes were nearly up. ‘Princess, you know we ask our guests to choose a favourite piece of music and a favourite book,’ Flash Harry said. He was looking relieved: the thinking part of the interview was over. He gazed at her intently. ‘What are your choices, ma’am?’
‘Mr Docherty, that was so difficult,’ Princess Io cooed. ‘I like all music. But the concerto for bamboo pipes and zithers by the renowned Japanese composer Michiko Hirano would give me great pleasure, and for my book, the collected works of Kazuo Ishiguro. You know he wrote in English, of course?’
It gave her great and wicked pleasure to see the blank expression on Flash Harry’s face. There was no of course about it: he hadn’t the faintest idea what she was talking about. The courtesies were concluded and she was invited to remain in her seat until the recording was finished.
‘That’s it, we have a clear,’ came an authoritative voice from the darkness. Another anonymous hand touched her arm and led her to the side. Flash Harry nodded a curt ‘Thanks, Princess, ’bye,’ before rummaging for his powerbook. He had already wiped from his limited brain the Princess’s details and was immediately engaged in absorbing the bare facts about his next distinguished interviewee, who was waiting in the wings and fiddling nervously with his necktie.
It had not been an uplifting experience, the Princess confided later to her son. What she did not tell him, however, was her horror as she watched herself that evening from the comfort of her boudoir.
She looked old. She was old, but that was not itself a nuisance. Not normally. Her body was in fair condition: it has never been denied whatever care and treatment it required. She had never abused it with alcohol, tobacco or psychotropic drugs. Her clothes emphasised her birdlike fragility; her hair was as black and glossy as in her youth. And she had prided herself that her most recent face-lift, at the age of seventy-five, would last her till her natural end.
But the face looked haggard and wizened. The eyes sagged. Turkey skin disfigured the chin-line. On her fine bone structure the result was appalling, a stark contrast to the featureless inscrutability she had cultivated both as a princess and as an oriental.
As the programme credits rolled to the sound of enthusiastic applause from the mystery audience, the Princess reached for the vidphone. She might not be able to exchange her birth certificate, but she could tackle its unwanted outcome,
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